Red Hurricane
by H1R3SHU
Summary: The Nazi storm has been pushed back into the epicentre of their bloody empire, by the oncoming storm of Red Army soldiers. Seelow Heights is on the verge of collapsing and nothing can stand between the First Belarusian Front and Berlin. There is only one thing in the mind of Bektemir Dimarkurato: all Nazis must die.


_**"The writer is the engineer of the human soul." - Josef Vissarionovich Stalin**_

* * *

 _15 April 1945, 07:00 Hrs AM._

Bektemir Doniyorovich Dimarkurato was an Uzbek Red Army soldier at the rank of Private, or Pyadovoi. He came from the town of Moynak in the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic. He had been working in a cotton mill in the Uzbek SSR, until the Nazis had invaded from the west, slaughtering their way through Belarus and Ukraine while being aided by nationalists in the area. They had made their way to Stalingrad. At the age of 25 years old, Dimarkurato had been selected by the local Commissariat to join the Red Army as a pyadovoi. He had arrived in Stalingrad in time for the USSR to gain a great victory over the invader, pushing them back.

But the cost had been high; the lands between the eastern border of the Third Reich and the eastern edge of Stalingrad itself was smeared with the blood of those who had been deemed by the 'Defenders of Europe' as 'subhuman'. The Third Reich had claimed it was only going to war with what they believed to be the 'Jewish conspirators', or the Communist Bolshevik government. The Bolsheviks had been purged from the party by Stalin himself. The reality was atrocious: men, women and children of all ages had been enslaved or executed in horrific ways by the Nazi warmachine as it edged eastwards. The outcome was more devastating than the famine the Ukrainian people called the 'Holodomor' that had happened years before. Bodies and remains were littered in the ruins of every settlement that had been found by the instruments of Hitler.

Dimarkurato now stood at the rear of an ML20 artillery weapon, across a plain from Seelow Heights. Parts of the German town were in ruins, but many buildings stood in defiance against the advancing First Belarusian Front, the unit Dimarkurato had been transferred to after Kursk. There had been a continued siege through that winter of 1944, with many dying in the trenches outside the city, but the thaw was slowly but surely coming. There were two other ML20 cannons, the one to his left operated by Alexei Ilin, a younger soldier from the city of Smolensk, and to his right, Atanas Svetazarov Belov, the Bulgarian soldier who had joined after Bulgaria had been liberated.

Behind him, Captain Commissar Bodgan Grigorovich Grigorev spoke, in a clear and sharp Belarusian accent. "Intelligence reports have indicated that the Germans are setting up artillery on the edge of the city. The red brick buildings are believed to be their target locations. Comrades, we must level those buildings." Dimarkurato stood up to his weapon, looking for the red brick buildings through the sight. There were three of them, and he could see movement inside one of them. Serguchev loaded a shell into the chamber and closed it, and Dimarkurato fired.

The shot arched high above the snow-covered plain, leaving a trail, and hit a building next to his target. Beside him, Belov fired, opening the chamber. The spent shell bounced along the floor below and he looked up. "The building is coming down!" He exclaimed. Dimarkurato followed his gaze: the leftmost target building had collapsed into rubble and dust. But then in the forefront of his vision, Dimarkurato saw movement.

"Panzer!" Ilin yelled, pointing towards the shape of the German tank. Grigorev had noticed. "Quickly, take out that tank before he can take aim." In response, Dimarkurato spun the gears, levelling the sights on the Panzer as the turret turned towards their position. He then fired, the recoil jolting his body. Serguchev opened the chamber and the spent shell clattered out. He began loading the next shell for use. Dimarkurato peered over the ML20 and saw he had missed. He nearly swore, readjusting the wheels and levelling the sights again. Beside him, his comrades still fired.

His shot hit the Panzer, tearing it into metallic shards and scattering it across the frozen ground. Dimarkurato grinned: his first Panzer this day. Grigorev spoke curtly. "Keep an eye out. There are probably other Panzers in the area."

Dimarkurato noticed Ilin was distracted and exploded in his characteristic outburst. "That was close. We are sitting ducks here, hurry up!" Ilin moved back to his own cannon and told his fellow soldier to load a new shell. And then Belov exclaimed, confirming Grigorev's words to be true. "Another Panzer, moving into position."

Grigorev could see the dark metallic shape moving out across the plains between them and the town. His slanted green eyes turned towards the city itself: he could see movement in the two remaining red-brick buildings. Dimarkurato gestured frantically for Serguchev to reload, as he spun the cannon around to face the new threat. Serguchev loaded, and Dimarkurato breathed: he had to hit it on the first shot.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dimarkurato saw a shell erupt from the direction of Belov's ML20 and he looked over his own weapon, watching as the shell plunged into the second Panzer, engulfing it in an explosion of flame. Dimarkurato smiled briefly before redirecting his aim onto the red-brick on the right end of the town. He pulled the trigger and the shell arched into the building.

He saw an explosion of dust and the building seemed to lean to one side. He punched the air enthusiastically. "Direct hit!" Shots from Belov and Ilin's ML20s arched towards the central objective building, destroying it in a series of explosions. There were similar outbursts. Serguchev hurried to reload the cannon. Dimarkurato's attention was back on the building. He saw a flash and then the low whistle of a shell. "Incoming!" Ilin yelled, and the shell exploded behind them, sending snow and damp earth showering over them.

When Dimarkurato looked back up, his ears were ringing. He shook his head to clear it and stepped back up to the cannon as Serguchev stepped aside. He repositioned his aim, and then fired. The shot arced across the two wrecked chassis of the Panzers, over the frozen soil, over the first buildings, in through the window into the core of the building where the enemy artillery was situated. The building imploded into dust and fire. Dimarkurato stepped back and said in a gleeful tone: "That was the last of them. All targets _destroyed_." To his right, Belov basked in glee with a wide grin.

* * *

Dimarkurato came to attention, marched to Grigorev, and reported, saluting. "Comrade Pyadovoi Dimarkurato reporting, Comrade Commissar." Grigorev saluted back, and then began to speak.  
"The scouting party has not yet returned. Follow the trenches, and find out what has happened to them." Grigorev said curtly. Dimarkurato saluted stiffly, and sprinted to find a weapon as the other gun crews stepped down. He was used to Grigorev's bluntness: everything about the Belarusian was stern and sharp, everything was cold. Grigorev was younger than Dimarkurato himself but had seen a lot of action elsewhere in the Nazi-occupied Soviet zones. Grigorev had witnessed mass-executions by Nazi death squads and mass-executions of the enemy and also of Poles by the NKVD. Violence was another thing to him, he had learned to except it and his responsibility a long time ago.

He had been part of the Brest garrison before it had been taken in a surprise assault on the 22nd of June, 1941. This is when Operation Barbarossa had begun; when the true ambition of the Third Reich came to face. Three commanders had worked to continue defence of the centuries old fortress of Brest: Pyotr Gavrilov, Commissar Yefim Fomin, and Andrei Kizhevatov. Grigorev had been under Fomin, who had seen the potential in him to become a Commissar. At the time, he had been a Starshina, a Sergeant-Major of the Red Army. He had managed to survive. He discovered later Fomin had been executed as Holmskiy Gate had fallen: due to his position as a Commissar and his Jewish heritage. His last action had been to defy an SS officer to his face: "I am a Commissar; a Communist and a Jew."

Grigorev had joined the Polish-Belarusian partisans deep in the forests where they could avoid the surrounding slaughter. Grigorev had managed to return to the Red Army garrison further east in Vityebsk before they were moved further east again, into the Russian SSR. Instead of being shot for deserting, Grigorev had been assigned the post of Commissar and sent to fight in Stalingrad. He had shown initiative in every close-quarter fight, and he had survived and the majority of men he commanded with him. He had seen too many of his people die, and he made sure he did everything to keep them alive.

Dimarkurato found his PPSh-41, his favourite submachine. It consisted of the wooden stock and the barrel, and the ammunition was held in the circular drum magazine in front of the trigger-guard. For him, it was light. He made his way to the trenches to the north of their position, and was greeted with an unpleasant sight as he entered them. One Red Army soldier was lying against the wooden wall of the trench, a thin blanket around his shoulders. It looked as if he had frozen to death in the low temperatures of the night, but one lifeless hand held a wound in his chest. the other had been holding a weapon. Another body was lying on the floor, several wounds in it. The features of the face were hardly recognisable. Dimarkurato seized a nearby blanket and covered the body, going through a prayer in his head, before continuing on.

He could hear gunfire around the corner. Light snow started to fall again, but the chill did not seep into his focused mind. The sound of an MP40. Dimarkurato had become used to the slow sound of the German submachine gun expelling bullets into his fellow comrades, and he had also come to hate the sound. He found their weapons were useless and clumsy compared to the PPSh-41. They would not learn their lesson: they were unintelligent people.

Dimarkurato looked around the corner to see three German soldiers firing on two Red Army soldiers hiding in an overturned M3 half-track. It had a white American star on it: something gifted to the Soviets as part of Roosevelt's Lend-Lease programme. _That is how useful they are_... Dimarkurato thought sarcastically. He stepped out of cover and raised his weapon, pulling the trigger. The staccato sound of the PPSh-41 drowned out the sound of everything else as one after another German soldiers fell. When he lowered the smoking weapon, he saw the three bloody bodies of the Wehrmacht soldiers.

One of the Red Army soldiers, a Kazakh by the name of Timur Andropov and the rank of Pyadovoi, gestured for Dimarkurato to run to the cover of the half-track. As soon as Dimarkurato got there, he spoke.  
"The tank has us pinned down! This half-track is providing cover for now, but it will not last for much longer."  
The other soldier, a Slav by the name and rank of Pyadovoi Osipov, spoke up with an idea. "Flank the tank and plant a sticky-bomb. Be careful, there are footsoldiers up there protecting it." Osipov turned to the half-track, rummaging through the driver compartment, and handed Dimarkurato the sticky bomb. He inspected it, and then looked over the edge of the half-track.

The Panzer was there, unaware as of yet of his presence. Perhaps it had seen the wreckage of its fellow Panzers and decided to retreat to a safe location, out of sight of the Soviet artillery. But it would not escape Dimarkurato. Andropov and Osipov jumped up in unison and opened fire, attracting the Panzer's full attention, and Dimarkurato sprinted for the path that would lead up to the mound the Panzer was situated on. Dimarkurato ducked behind the sandbags but did not see any of the German soldiers Osipov had mentioned. The Panzer's main cannon was out of action and only its secondary gun could fire. Dimarkurato saw movement and the head of a German soldier appeared behind the tank. He immediately pulled the trigger and the head did not reappear.

He was a few yards behind the Panzer. He did not see any other Wehrmacht in the immediate area. The Panzer's secondary MG was focused on the half-track, peppering it with rounds. Osipov ducked back behind it to reload, Andropov fired in controlled bursts. Dimarkurato ran from his position and applied the explosive, the gel forcing it coagulate to the armour. He clicked the timer and slid down the mound, knowing it was the safest place he could be.

He waited. There was an explosion, and he saw metal pieces fly over his head as German shouts arose. Andropov and Osipov had discontinued firing, preferring to save their bullets and watch the explosion. From their position, they could not see Dimarkurato. "That will do it. Regroup!" Osipov shouted, hoping their newly found comrade would have survived.

Dimarkurato strolled over and Andropov spoke. "Good job, comrade! Continue to scout ahead. We will return to the Captain Commissar with our findings." Andropov shook hands with Dimarkurato and Osipov followed before both soldiers retreated into the trenches, the way he himself had come. He watched the running figures disappear, looked at the destroyed Half-Track, and continued on, jumping over sandbags under a quickly constructed bridge. Nothing had come here recently. The trenches seemed to curve and wind in front of him, and he realised how alone he was; there could be a soldier at every corner, and there would be a chance of one with quicker reflexes than him.

He came close to a T-junction to hear gunfire, and then a Red Army soldier stepped out in front of him from the left, firing his PPSh-41 erratically. There was return fire and as Dimarkurato started sprinting to the soldier's aid, bullets seared through the air and the soldier dropped, dead instantly. Dimarkurato knelt by the body, and found the name in the breast. "Pyadovoi Smirnov." Was written here. Dimarkurato placed the Soviet identification back and picked up the Mosin-Nagant which Smirnov had dropped. Using a crate as cover, Dimarkurato picked off the enemy and advanced forward. The route was taking him through the wine cellar under a shelled house. The house above was empty, as was the wine cellar. He stepped over dead German bodies and continued on, entering the open-air section again.

It had begun snowing lightly once noticed the trenches led on for a few yards and came into a dried riverbed. He sprinted forward, entering the dried riverbed. To his left was a destroyed wall and a thick, fallen tree, and the way forward, under the main bridge in this section of the town. Dimarkurato peered around the corner: the dried riverbed entered the shadow of the bridge and emerged, only to be blocked by a destroyed building. A soldier spoke from behind Dimarkurato and he snapped his head towards the voice.

Private Zhuravlev was speaking. "Keep your head down! There is an MG42 on the bridge. You will have to take your scoped rifle and hit the gunner from cover." Dimarkurato climbed onto the wall, using the tree and its snapped branches for cover, and took aim. _Inhale._ _Exhale_. He pulled the trigger and the recoil jarred his shoulder. He returned his gaze to the scope to see that the bullet had glanced off the MG42 into the gunner's shoulder. _He had hit_.

There was another gunshot, and he saw the gunner fall and more running shapes on the bridge. Zhuravlev grinned, his face darkened by smoke and dust. "Nice job, comrade!" He said, climbing down and slinging the Mosin-Nagant onto his back. Dimarkurato watched the energetic soldier sprint up the riverbed, coming to a stop in the shadow under the bridge. Dimarkurato squinted as sunlight blinded him and he saw Zhuravlev duck as Wehrmacht soldiers ambushed him from both sides.

Dimarkurato considered jumping down and moving to Zhuravlev's position, but then considered his own to the advantage, and so he raised his Mosin-Nagant once again, checking the magazine: he had seven rounds left. He quickly realigned his sight on the shapes under the bridge, firing arms at Zhuravlev. He fired and one of the shadows went down. He fired again, and another of the shadows hit the ground, crawling away. Some of the other shadows had retreated, and Zhuravlev got up to cut them down.

Bektemir jumped down from his position and ran to join Zhuravlev in the shadow of the bridge. Zhuravlev was in a crouch, and he raised his finger to his lips. "There is another Wehrmacht division nearby." Zhuravlev's words were confirmed by pounding boots on the bridge above. Dimarkurato moved towards the bank towards the right and climbed it, watching the shadows of the running shape pass on the riverbed ground. Dimarkurato crawled over the wall onto the bridge, dropping behind crates, and was joined by Voronin and Kovalev, soldiers of the same rank.

They too took cover from the fire of the German Wehrmacht, who were across the other side of the bridge in the ruined centre of this quarter of the city. Dimarkurato could see the buildings he had shelled earlier, now only ragged spires of brick stood as evidence of a building that had stood before. Dimarkurato's eyes sought out a dropped portable emplacement, and he ran to it. The belt was full of placed it into the chamber of the emplacement and he slammed it shut, running to the crates on the opposite side as Voronin and Kovalev laid down support fire. German soldiers were sprawled on the bridge, the blood pooling underfoot.

Dimarkurato found the perfect vantage point and opened fire on the fleeing Wehrmacht, cutting them down like a scythe through wheat in the fields of Ukraine. They fell, dropping their weapons and falling into rivers of their own blood. A smile began forming on Dimarkurato's face; he almost felt that the war should continue for century after century just to carry out a massacre of all who wore the Swastika. But then the reality came back and he saw Voronin sprinting past. "Push, push!" He yelled, entering the courtyard full of debris. "The Nazi rats are retreating into the adjacent building! They have locked the door!" Dimarkurato yelled. His steel-coloured eyes narrowed on the building as he approached it, covered by Voronin and Kovalev. Kovalev followed him to the building, where they pressed against the wall.

The remaining Germans were speaking in panicked voices inside the building. It was clear to the Red Army soldiers that there was one way in and one way out. Dimarkurato looked around the corner and he saw an open window. A smile spread across his face: he was at the perfect angle to throw a grenade through the window and cause damage. He pulled a grenade out of his jacket, his last grenade, and pulled the pin. Speaking over his shoulder to Kovalev, he said "Get ready to kick the door in." And then he tossed the grenade.

It bounced off the sill into the room and there was a shout of anguish before the explosion and dust billowed out of the windows. Dimarkurato heard the sound of a door cracking behind him and he turned, PPSh-41 raised. Kovalev had already run into the single room of the building, which was filled with dust, and in slow motion, he dived for cover behind an overturned desk. Dimarkurato raised his rifle and fired into the dust, hearing bodies hitting the ground. Everything happened as if time had been glazed over with thick liquid. The dust cleared and Dimarkurato saw a German soldier falling back slowly, a mural of blood painted on the wall behind. Another German was holding his shattered leg and screaming in agony before Kovalev got back up and open fired.

Dimarkurato still held his rifle parallel with the floor as the last German fell. Kovalev picked himself up from behind the table and looked around. Shards clattered on the floor from the wall behind them and they both whipped around. Seeing nothing, Dimarkurato lowered his rifle and grinned at Kovalev, who grinned back, looking disorientated. Dimarkurato slung the rifle over his back and climbed up on the sill, wiping dust off his uniform and red epaulettes. The sun came down suddenly and Dimarkurato squinted, looking across the rubble. He jumped down off the sill and began walking towards the plaza as he heard Voronin's voice. "Dimarkurato! Kovalev! Regroup!"

The sounds of fighting were dying down, the gunshots and artillery now sounding far away. Dimarkurato's eyes rested on a group of soldiers. Out of them, he recognised Grigorev, Belov, Andropov, and Voronin. Kovalev was following him from the infirmary behind. Dimarkurato dragged a hang across his face, feeling a layer of grime and dust there, and fatigue threaten to overwhelm him. Grigorev's gaze passed over him before he spoke, addressing all the soldiers assembled.

"Good work. The Germans are falling back. It will not be long before we are in Berlin, and we can crush this Fascist rabble once and for all." At the end of his words, a cheer rose up. The Nazi parasite would indeed be crushed under the strength of the Soviet Union.


End file.
